March, 1997: Part Two

"I think my nose is broken. Is my nose broken?"

Erik tilted his head back and scrutinized Dirk's swollen face. "I think so, but I can't really tell." His own left eye was swelling spectacularly well, and his right was so bloodshot that he couldn't tell if he was literally seeing red because it was gushing from Dirk's nose or his eye was that badly damaged.

"How about me?" Erik and Dirk watched with twin disdain as their fellow teammate, LaFlamme, settled himself down in between the two. As always, he was untouched and unmarred by the match's events thus far, and would remain that way so long as Dirk or Erik were on the ice. He offered the men an easy grin as he took a gulp from a plastic bottle of water. "You're looking good, Lehnsherr."

Erik snorted, then winced. "French bastard."

LaFlamme pouted at the insult as he capped his bottle. "You Germans. Always so quick in your contempt!" He unsnapped his helmet, shook his long mane of thick hair, and sighed. "Although I must praise you for your brute strength."

"Damn right," Dirk muttered as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Lehnsherr, off the pine! You're up!"

Erik closed his aching eyes, hung his head, and let loose a weary sigh. Then, with a sharp inhale through his sore nose, he squared his shoulders and pushed himself off the bench with his stick. "Wish me luck," he grunted over his shoulder as he clambered over the wall.

Before he could skate off, however, Dirk darted forward and snatched the sleeve of his jersey. Erik jerked with the motion, trying to steady his thin blades on the ice. He leveled his teammate with a flat expression until he released his grip.

"Sorry," Dirk huffed, "I just thought I should remind you of who's in attendance tonight."

"How could I forget," Erik said with a roll of his eyes. The motion caused a lance of pain through his head, but it wasn't anything he wasn't used to.

"Don't let Schmidt get to you," Dirk insisted. "You deserve to go to the show as much as any of us." A sharp shout from a referee stopped him from adding anymore, but Erik got the gist.

"The show?" Erik teased as he began to glide backward. "You couldn't sound anymore American, Dirk."

"You should hear my English," Dirk retorted back as Erik finally made his way to his position. LaFlamme looked at the blonde in confusion, and Dirk shrugged. "What? I do a great American accent."

"You're an idiot," LaFlamme said with a shake of his head.

"You're French. So, I win."

There was a dull thud as the rubber puck was dropped to the ice, and then the usual crack of two sticks crashing into another in an attempt to snatch the puck. There was grunting, and yelling, and blades singing over smooth ice. The usual cacophony of a hockey game in motion. But then there was a sudden lull, an odd hush as a derogatory slur was shouted over the din like a bolt of lightening before a threatening storm.

And then there was absolute mayhem.

Dirk was up and over the wall before LaFlamme had time to process what was happening.

Lehnsherr, face streaked wet with bright blood, sharp teeth gnashed together so painfully tight that a muscle in his jaw jumped and pulsed under the strain, had another man by his neck with his bare hands. He pulled one free only to close it into a tight fist and repeatedly smash it into the other man's unprotected face.

"What did you call me, you son of a bitch?" Erik's voice was dark and thunderous as he mercilessly pummeled the other man until he couldn't keep his legs underneath himself. Even then, Erik followed the man down to the ice.

Forget what Schmidt had said about scouts and machismo, Erik was going to serve the abominable man a sound thrashing and give the crowd a taste of one reason why they had started calling him The Shark.

TBC...

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